No Laughing Matter
by The USS Ficcelsior
Summary: I feel like I'm in WCW and it's 1997.


_"I will enjoy dissecting your brain, Ms. Kyle."_

\- Dr. Hugo Strange, _Batman: Arkham City_

* * *

Harley Quinn's aching, pounding universe slowly merged into something comprehensible. It had all happened so fast. One minute, she was happily skipping and flipping her way through Gotham's alleys as her ragtag gang of clowns performed the Joker's greatest prank yet: Spray painting smiley faces over all of the latest Arkham propaganda. The next minute, she somersaulted her merry little self into a double-cross and became the butt of the joke when some wise guy who thought he was Bugs Bunny dropped an anvil on her head. Confetti and disappointed trumpets rained down in the darkness of her sudden, heavily concussed dreams.

And to think a bad opening act used to just mean you'd get whacked by a few rotten vegetables.

She had no idea where they were taking her (or who "they" were, for what it mattered) as she lay in a mindless stupor. She remembered something Mister J said a long time ago as she grumpily came back around, something about the victim getting all fuzzy.

She was in a black room, with a black floor and a black ceiling. Actually, was more like an empty void than a room. All she saw in front of her was a medical type with a beard and glasses who looked like he enjoyed his line of work just a wee bit too much, accompanied by a peanut gallery of distant blurry-faced surgeons. She turned her head—or tried to—only to realize she was bound to the wall with steel and leather shackles.

"Ah. Dr. Quinzel, I presume?" said Hugo Strange, leering into her eyes.

"That's Harley to you, four eyes," Harley Quinn grumbled hazily in return.

Dr. Strange raised a clipboard in his arm and quickly scribbled in shorthand. He announced his thoughts as he wrote.

"Patient appears hostile toward peers. Troubling."

Harley growled. She tried to twist her wrists out of their restraints to no avail.

"Listen, you quack!" she shouted. "I don't know what your deal is, but you better start talking right now!"

Dr. Strange scratched his chin. After a moment of thought, he nodded in agreement.

"I'm studying the effects of Komedium on human test subjects," he spoke slowly. Another doctor wheeled behind him with a cart loaded with needles and tiny red vials. "I've almost finished examining your blood samples. Next I'd like to analyze a small piece of your brain tissue. I want to find out if your mania is primarily triggered by repressed psychological trauma or by acid in your blood degenerating your brain cells. I must know everything about you in and out before we can begin making real progress in your therapy, Dr. Quinzel."

"Komedium?" Harley said with a confused stare.

"The industrial chemicals one Jack Napier was exposed to several years ago, turning him into the Joker. The same chemicals he exposed you to to turn you into the quaint creature you are now," Dr. Strange explained. "It's actually a mercury-based solution used for cleaning commercial aircraft."

"So you're talking about wacky soup." Harley shrugged.

"Komedium. It's a trademarked name," Dr. Strange sternly replied.

"Wacky soup," Harley said with increasing agitation.

Dr. Strange sighed and hopelessly shook his head. He took to his pen and clipboard again.

"Subject reverts to a childish insistence of basic concepts when confronted with reality. Recommending we begin her treatment at the elementary level."

Dr. Strange put his clipboard aside and knelt in front of Harley. He took a firm grip around one of her ankles, pulled her leg slightly forward, and used a small hammer to check the reflexes of her knee. He locked her foot in the crook of his elbow to keep it steady, holding the back of her knee as he gently trained the leg to move up and down. His hands slid up to get a close feel of the movements of her thigh muscles.

"You're a rare breed of street vermin, Dr. Quinzel," Hugo spoke casually as he performed the examination. "The only of your species, if I dare to say. You have the body to rival most of Gotham's undesirables and the mind of one of us. Your physical abilities are just as remarkable as your degraded mental state. All I have to do is repair the Joker's damage and bring those two aspects of you in sync. You're going to be put through every bone, muscle, and neurological test accepted in modern science until we know exactly how much of you is natural conditioning and how much is toxic waste."

"I can tell you everything you need to know right now, ya old geezer," Harley snorted, wiggling her leg out of his grasp. "I have a PhD in kicking your ass!"

"Your _curriculum vitae_ says it was in Criminal Psychology," Dr. Strange corrected. "I studied your personnel history quite thoroughly when you were admitted to my care."

"Joker is going to make you pay for getting your grubby hands on me!" Harley Quinn snarled through clenched teeth.

"My dear, how can you be sure the Joker wasn't the one who donated you as a specimen?" Dr. Strange smiled. "Gotham's crime rate is at an all-time high. Henchmen come as cheaply as disposable gloves these days."

"Urrrgh. I don't need that loser, anyway!" Harley shouted in rebellion. "I'm a role model for female independence!"

Dr. Strange chuckled under his breath. Slowly, he turned toward his other staff. The staff members looked back and forth between each other with grins growing on their faces. The entire operating room exploded into uproarious laughter.

Dr. Strange briefly pulled off his glasses to wipe the tears from the corners of his eyes.

"I'll give you one thing, girl," he said. "You sure know how to tell a good joke."

"You're not gonna like it when I get out of here!" Harley Quinn sneered again.

"On the contrary, I'd very much enjoy seeing you set free," Dr. Strange said. "Once you're through all the serums and surgeries, you'll practically forget you were ever an accessory to the Joker. I'm going to gleam you for your expertise on all of the Arkham's inmates once your ego has been crushed, you've given up your criminal identity, and you revert to your original respectable self. Only when you've been cured and my treatment has been proven to be successful will you be released."

"From your icky clutches?" Harley asked, blinking.

"From your life," Dr. Strange said. His eyes disappeared behind the glare of his glasses as he held a needle to her throat.

As he pulled the needle back, his expression became more friendly. In an unsettling way.

"Unless, of course," he added, "your opinion of me changes once your rehabilitation is complete and you decide to become my permanent resident physician. I do tend to be more understaffed compared to your current employer, and I can't say any of my personnel are skilled acrobats."

"In your dreams, creep." Harley rolled her eyes. "You can be Dr. Moreau and I'll be Nurse Ratched."

"Ah, you reminded me!" Dr. Strange said in an epiphany. "I'll need to increase your sleeping medications. I want a full REM study performed on you for the next month. I'm not letting a single one of your brain patterns escape my scrutiny."

"Boy, my own special admirer," Harley muttered sarcastically. Her face fumed in rage, but it was hiding the chill that crept up her spine. She considered what could happen if Dr. Strange managed to drive her out of her mind… or back into it.


End file.
